A Summer Without Bees

 

            Last year, rain frequently visited Belgium. By summer constant rainfalls turned everything green in the Belgian countryside. Trees got taller, shrubs and green grass thrived while transforming my sister’s garden into a lush and back to wild landscape.

 

A variety of birds reside in Mariane’s large yard, chirping out loud throughout the seasons. By early summer, the giant leaves of a Catalpa tree standing tall and wide in the middle of her green garden offered an ideal refuge for birds waiting for the rain to stop falling so hard.

 

 

During wet summer days, frogs in search of food also wandered the lush green grass my sister seeded years ago. Last year’s brief summery season was especially warm and the air infested with mosquitoes. Sleeping with an open window became a challenge for me. The miniature pests loved feeding on my skin.

 

Not many Belgians use mosquito-screens in their homes. I do not understand why. Hopefully the Nile virus that is now affecting Northern California has not reached Belgium yet. For a short amount of time, last summer sun smiled on the Northern European country mimicking the tropics. The temperature reached 90 degrees Fahrenheit, all the while exuding extreme humidity.

 

On the rare occasions the sun did shine, birds seemed especially merry. While rising with an early sun, diverse Belgian birds daily performed a variety of morning songs and calls while humans were still in bed and perhaps trying to stay asleep. Each day, the early birds’ songs awoke me and kept me awake. Unfortunately, the European summer sun did not radiate for very long. Rain and cold temperatures quickly returned into the Belgian forecast.

 

One wet day, while on one of my morning outings and visits to my neighbors, the elderly couple welcomed me with a Belgian beer. Willy served me the amber beverage in a specific beer-glass. For the first time I tasted a Belgian beer made in a town called Silly. While sitting at the kitchen table and sipping my ale, I said: 

 

“Do you know what the word Silly means in English?” 

 

“Hmmm?” responded Gilberte.

 

“Stupid could be one synonym. It is the same word in English and French,” I explained.

 

“Ah,” the red-hair lady said slightly puzzled. “I do not speak French very well. My first language is Flemish.”

 

“Your French is fine. My Flemish is not that great,” I responded.

 

“I speak Walloon,” Gilberte’s husband interjected while heading to a backroom connecting to the kitchen.

 

“I do not speak Walloon but I can guess some words,” I said smiling at the old man who proceeded to ride a stationary bicycle located in an area that looked like a storage room.

 

“How do you like the rainy Belgian climate?” Gilberte jokingly inquired. “My right leg is giving me a hard time right now.”

 

 

“I am having a hard time too, and I am not the only one,” I retorted. “I do not like rain, and my sister’s vegetable indoor garden is not doing well either. The two eggplants I planted in the glass house are not producing, the tomato plants are diseased, and the lettuces are eaten by slugs.”

 

 

“There a no bees out there,” Gilberte further explained. “Like you, I do not think bees like rain.”

 

“Did you put nettle-leaves in the soil before planting your tomato plants?” the aging man asked while pedaling on an indoor bike that couldn’t move forward.

 

“I did not know that nettle-leaves prevent mildew on tomato plants,” I replied. “There are plenty of nettles growing wild everywhere around here. Great advice. Thank you Willy.”

 

“I already told your sister,” he said while sipping from a large glass of French Pastis and still pedaling.

 

“My sister is very forgetful nowadays,” I said. “She did not tell me.”

 

“I always put half-orange peelings near my growing lettuces, even inside my glass house,” Gilberte added. “We each drink a glass of orange juice every day. Slugs love it too, and then they die.”

 

“How interesting,” I retorted. “My stomach does not agree with orange juice. But I do like beer.”

 

“Slugs like beer too. You could place a bowl filled with beer near your small growing lettuces,” continued my hostess. “It works.”

 

 

“Have another glass of beer,” interrupted my friendly male-neighbor who had just finished his daily exercise.

 

“No, thank you,” I answered. “I enjoyed the Belgian beer you just offered me. I had not tried that variety yet.”

 

“Come again,” said the gray-hair man.

 

“I will help you to the door,” continued Gilberte while limping to her entrance door.

 

“Have a good day. See you next time. Thank you for the beer,” I finished saying, “Goodbye.”

 

“Rex. Sit,” the lady voiced towards her rambunctious dog, meanwhile turning the key and opening the locked door. “See you next time.”

 

Feeling relaxed after ingesting a beer before lunch, I went back to my sister’s home and started preparing a midday meal. I made a salad, with the lettuces I had saved from the voracious slugs. I did not know about the deadly power of oranges. Every morning I had hunted for slugs, picking the slimy visitors one by one, while disregarding them at the end of my sister’s outdoor property and where farmlands began. The next day, the crawling creatures were back.

 

Instead of using half-orange peelings to divert slugs’ insatiable appeal and appetite towards lettuces, I covered each shoot with a transparent globe that included a hole at the top, to let air in. The French children book called “The Little Prince,” gave me the idea. But I did not use a glass-globe to protect a precious rose. Instead, I used a variety of empty plastic containers – recycled one-gallon plastic water-bottles – that protected my growing lettuces from hungry invaders.

 

Yet the eggplants I had planted gave me great concern. The small shrubs garnished of many light-purple flowers all died instead of growing into good looking vegetables with smooth skins and a burgundy coloring. I reflected awhile on the subject and eventually remembered.

 

 

While still living in Northern California, I had seen a documentary on China. One part of the documentary focused on a region in China where pears used to grow in abundance, thanks to an affluence of bees. Amidst a large orchard of pear trees, one old Chinese man explained to a camera that all the fruit-flowers in his orchard were now pollinized by hand. On camera, the wise man also revealed the small brush he used to perform his delicate and tedious work. He looked proud of his accomplishment. Pollinized flowers turned into pears.

 

“One flower at the time,” the Chinese man said. “Since bees have stopped coming.”

 

I wanted to try, and I did. Using a small painting brush, I delicately touched each flower growing on one eggplant. With the same brush-pencil I furthermore touched the other eggplant also garnished of flowers. The little yellow flowers timidly surviving on the tomato plants faced the same treatment, while tomato mildew kept on creeping.

 

A few weeks later, I saw the results of my labor on some of the plants growing in Mariane’s green house. Small dark purple eggplants started becoming. My sister was happy. I was happy too. Unfortunately, we ate very few organic tomatoes that summer. The invasive mildew refrained tomato plants from developing into healthy vines and tasteful fruits.

 

 Nevertheless, learning from the wisdom of my elderly neighbors and an old Chinaman, I hold now a few farming secrets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hunters, the Chickens and the Fox

 

One evening, I heard guns firing in the near distance. Hunting season had just begun in the Belgian countryside. While on one of my regular outings, I saw a gathering of hunting men wearing gears dyed in the colors of falling leaves. I saw human predators long riffles in hands – hunting dogs waiting at their knees – encircling a large piece of farming land dressed in a wintry brown coat. Listening to the sound of guns, I remembered the story my neighbor Gilberte told me.

The country lady lives with her husband a few doors down the street or more exactly down a countryside road. Farming lands surround the Belgian landscape, including fenced fields with grazing cows, horses but also sheep and geese.

One morning, while visiting my neighbor with the intention of buying fresh organic eggs conceived in her garden, a conversation begun.

“Hunting season has just begun,” the Belgian lady said in French.

“What do they hunt?” I asked.

“Pheasants and hares,” the elderly woman explained.

“Can I have some eggs today,” I inquired. “I’ll take whatever you have.”

“I have plenty of eggs right now. You can have as many as you want.”

“Your chickens must be happy.”

“Yes, my chickens are feeling better. They don’t seem traumatized at the moment.”

“What happened?”

“My poor chickens stopped producing eggs for a while,” Gilberte explained. “A fox came to visit. I lost three of my young chicks. The fox took them.”

“There are still wild foxes in Belgium?”

“Too many foxes around here,” the elderly lady proclaimed. “My chickens can’t come and go as they wish anymore. Now I have to call them at night and lock them into their den where they are safe from that fox.”

“The fox entered their enclosed den?”

“Yes, through the cat-door my husband had built,” Gilberte further explained. “I wish the hunters would kill a few.”

“Foxes need to eat too,” I retaliated.

“There are plenty of pheasants to hunt in the neighborhood. Foxes should leave my chickens alone,” the lady proclaimed a little aggravated.

“I guess coming in your yard and stealing your chicks is easier than chasing pheasants for kilometers on open lands.”

“My poor chicks,” she exclaimed sniffling. “And the few survivors left had to witness their kin killed in front of their beaks. My poor babies, just born and already dead.”

“Your chickens have been traumatized by the big bad fox,” I jokingly replied while smiling. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. You can have six eggs,” Gilberte said smiling back, “fresh from today and still warm.”

“I can’t wait to have a soft egg for lunch,” I finished saying.

While walking with a limp, the red-hair lady escorted me to the entrance door, her bulky furry dog following close by. I left my neighbor in good spirits and headed back to my sister’s home. Outside the air was cold and I walked fast, ready to be indoors again.

That evening while reflecting on Gilberte’s words, I saw the world with a different eye. Of course, I meant to speak for the sake of the big bad fox that proudly tries to survive amidst humans and limited territories. Yet at the same time, I also felt sorry for the death of Gilberte’s chicks and the post hunting trauma the surviving chickens had endured. I do enjoy eating eggs.

Laughing out Loud

 

It was a typical Northern California winter, with heavy rain and high humidity. My bones were cold and in need of warmth. I wanted to hibernate. Sitting in front of a blazing wooden-fire burning with high flames, a pleasant heat pervaded my living room. I didn’t want to go out. But I was supposed to have lunch with my girlfriend Laurie at the Bon Air Shopping Center. Courageously, I affronted the tempest. We met at Noah’s Bagel and ordered our favorite food. While savoring a poppy-seed bagel and sipping a hot latte, I started complaining about being cold to my girlfriend. She listened and said:

“It is not that cold. I thought you were born in Belgium, where the weather is much colder than here.”

“I was born in Africa where the weather is always warm,” I responded, waiting for my friend’s response.

“You were born in Africa? I didn’t know that.”

“My Aunt Lucy was born in Africa.”

“Really!?”

“Today, Aunt Lucy is a little over three thousand years old,” I explained with a smile.

“Ha, ha, ha …,” my friend laughed understanding my joke.

“Aunt Lucy is supposedly your Aunt too,” I explained with a big smile. “She’s the Aunt of all human beings. She is one of the known links in humanity’s ancestry that started in Ethiopia.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that theory before,” Laurie answered poking me with her elbow and continuing to laugh.

Seeing her laughing, I started laughing too. Laurie’s laugh was as contagious as a yawn. The contagious laugh didn’t clear easily either. Then, it was time for paper-tissues as my nose started running. One might have thought we had smoked a joint but we hadn’t. It was all genuine and innocent. We couldn’t stop laughing. We laughed a very long time while tears of joy invaded our eyes.

On another outing with my girlfriend, Laurie and I went to the movie theater in San Rafael. We were going to see a French movie.

“The movie is in French with English subtitles,” my girlfriend continued. “It should be easy for you.”

“Yes, I should be fine,” I replied. “It will be good practice. I’m losing my French these days. I can’t find certain words in French when I talk to my mother on the phone.”

“That is not funny.”

“If you don’t use it, you lose it,” I said remembering a famous American expression.

In the dark amphitheater of the movie house, we sat in the back rows popcorns in hand.

Movie trailers started unfolding onto the giant screen. The Northern California movie-theater advertised for new movies that would be showing in a near future. The theater room was packed with Marin residents in search of an evening of entertainment. As it happened, a violent film was eventually promoted on the screen. The trailer for the movie didn’t appeal to me. Without a conscious control of my thoughts, my mouth exclaimed out loud:

“I don’t think so.”

Laurie started to laugh, everyone in the room started to laugh.

“Oups,” I said softly to my girlfriend.

 Staring at Laurie, I started to laugh as well.

When the next advertisement for another movie came onto the screen, Laurie and I were still laughing. Waves of laughs bounced back between us like a ping pong ball. Again, we couldn’t stop. Tears began to drip down my cheeks while my hand desperately searched for tissues.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh,” said the crowd.

Our French movie was starting and we were able to stop our compulsive behavior. While eating warm popcorns, we stared at the big screen. The title: “La Vie en Rose” appeared in gigantic letters and the famous Edith Piaf song began to play. With my girlfriend, I discovered the tragic life story of the notorious French singer. I was glad to have extra tissues with me. I hadn’t cried in a movie for years. Walking out of the theater Laurie said:

“You know. You are part of our family.”

“My adopted family,” I responded with a smile. “A very nice one.”

And we hugged.

Back in Belgium for more than a year, I miss Laurie’s hugs. I miss all my California friends’ hugs. Belgians don’t hug, they kiss. In Belgium one kiss on the cheek is usually the custom. On the bright side of life, laughing seems universal and a human need. Most humans enjoy a good laugh. Yet laughs and tears seem of opposite forces. While tears often come from sorrow, sometimes tears are pearls of joy. I miss great laughing with Laurie.

 

 

 

The End

 

 

Best Friends

While growing up in Belgium, I had a few friends. At the time, my girlfriend Catherine was my best friend. For a while we shared a small apartment at the edge of Brussels. One summer afternoon, Catherine phoned me at work.

“Can you stop by my mother’s work and convince her that I’m fine,” my best friend said. “She’s worrying about me.”

“Ok,” I answered. “I’ll be home around 7pm. I’m so glad you are feeling better.”

Arriving home that evening, I found my best friend in bed. Her face was colorless, her body inert. At first I thought she was asleep. Then I worried.

“Catherine,” I exclaimed. “I’m home.”

But Catherine wouldn’t wake up. I touched one of her hands. Her hand felt cold. Hastily I phoned 911. Ten minutes later an ambulance arrived. A few men tried to reanimate my friend but without success. So they took her to the hospital.  

A few weeks earlier, Catherine and I had spoken.

“I dreamed about you,” I’d said. “In my dream, you told me that you were dead even though you looked alive and talked to me.”

“That’s funny,” Catherine had retorted laughing. “I’ve been thinking about committing suicide. I know the right pills to swallow.”

“Are you joking? What about your family, your friends,” I’d said. “What about me.”

“Yes, I know,” she’d retorted. “But I’m in so much pain. I don’t feel like living these days.”

My girlfriend’s laughs and words had startled me. I knew Catherine wasn’t well. Her boyfriend had left her for another woman. A psychologist was supposedly helping her deal with her heartache. In a way, I thought she was safe. I was mistaken.

For weeks, Catherine stayed in intensive care at one of Brussels’ hospitals. She was in a coma. While her body looked rosy and healthy, her brain was presumably dead. Every other day I went to visit my best friend at the hospital. Holding one of her hands in mine, I talked to her. I begged her:

“Please wake up.”

But my girlfriend wouldn’t wake up. Eventually, the doctor in charge disconnected her from life support. In a few minutes my best friend was gone.

The death of Catherine changed my life. I felt guilty for not being able to help my best friend. I felt guilty for arriving home too late. I should have taken my dream seriously. Shortly after Catherine’s funeral, I talked to my mother.

“I’m going to quit my job and leave Belgium,” I simply said. “I’m going to America.”

“You are?” she replied. “You know your father wouldn’t approve.”

“But dad is dead,” I continued. “He died last year. I need space. I need to see the world.”

“Do what you have to do then,” my mother finally responded.

“Thank you,” I finally replied. “If I don’t go, I’ll die too.”

Before leaving Belgium, I didn’t have the courage to say goodbye to some of my friends. I was feeling sad, angry and lonesome. In Europe, psychologists were only starting to become popular. Catherine was seeing one before she died, and what help did she get? Thus, I left my native country like a thief, fleeing away with my sorrows.

By the beginning of autumn, I was heading towards Northern California. I had a friend there. Michaela and I had met a few years earlier, while I was backpacking along the California coastline.

“You are welcome to stay with me in Mill Valley,” explained Michaela when I phoned her.

“That’s sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

Mill Valley is located in Marin, north of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. The small town features a large square, with various shops, restaurants and cafés. Hills and redwood trees also share the town’s landscape.

While my new life felt therapeutic, I often cried. My dreams where loaded with my best friend’s memories. Catherine’s ghost was playing tricks on me.

“Did anyone in Belgium tell you that I didn’t die after all,” the ghost in my dream said.

“No, no one told me,” I replied. “I’m so happy. I’ve been crying over you for months.”

“I’m alive and well,” the ghost explained.

Yet as soon as I awoke, reality returned. For years I kept on dreaming similar scenarios, until one night.

“Take me to California,” Catherine’s ghost once asked me.

“You’ll have to ride on my back,” I replied. “Where do you want to go?”

“To Stinson Beach,” she said knowing where I had been.

This time in my dream, I was a Bald eagle. Catherine sitting on my back, we flew together across the Atlantic and towards the Pacific Ocean. Our journey only took a few seconds. Quickly my sharp bird’s eyes located Stinson Beach while discerning a few miniature human buildings along Highway 1.

“I need to eat,” I said to Catherine.

“I’m hungry too,” she replied.

“Let’s go to The Sand Dollar Restaurant,” I explained. “I want salmon.”

Although I had metamorphosed into a bird, my girlfriend had remained human. She was holding my white neck with her two hands, her feet and legs tightly embracing my feathered body.

“There it is,” I said. “Hold on tight. We’re going to land.”

Adjusting my claws, I landed smoothly on the one of the tables in the restaurant’s outdoor terrace. We sat in the two last empty chairs. A waitress came fast. She didn’t seem startled about my transformation. The many customers already sitting and eating didn’t seem to care either. Catherine couldn’t speak English, so I ordered.

“Two bagels with cream cheese and lox please,” I said to the waitress.

After ingesting our lunch, we left the beach café and headed east towards Belgium. While flying away, we slowly vanished into annihilation. Today, often still, Catherine and I meet in a reality solely existing in my dreams.

 

 

Todos Santos, The Town of all Saints

Todos Santos, The Town of All Saints

I’ve only been to Mexico once. By all means, my knowledge about the country of Mexico is quite limited. But my Spanish is improving. Not long ago, I started taking lessons in a small town near Brussels, Belgium, where I presently live. Learning a new language that resembles French is definitely enjoyable.

When my California friend, Jack, invited me to spend a week in a small Mexican town call Todos Santos, I diligently followed. At the time, Belgium was experiencing constant rainfalls. The prospect of sun felt a deliverance.  

Before my departure I looked at the website of a resort adjacent the Pacific Ocean, reading of birds, a large swimming pool containing salted water, a virginal beach and organic food. The website also disclosed pictures. I discovered a Mexican eco-friendly resort standing proudly amongst palm trees of all kinds. It all sounded perfect and idyllic.

I didn’t further investigate on what else I would see and discover in Baja California, leaving my upcoming adventure to serendipity. Anyway, the sun would be shinning. What else would I need? I knew the weather would be warm, while the nearby ocean’s wind perhaps refreshing. I knew the benefit of sunblock. The Aloe Vera gel used for sunburns. When it came to clothing I was also prepared. A bathing suit was a must but also shorts, sandals and roomy cotton tops that allowed breathing. I totally underestimated Mexican mosquitoes though. And little did I know about other creatures living in that part of the world.

One summer morning, I left rainy Belgium and headed towards Northern California. While reuniting with the Bay Area and spending time with friends, my jetlag went smoothly away.  A week later, I was back at San Francisco Airport. This time, Jack and I took a short flight to Los Cabos located in Mexico. At the old fashion airport, we rented a car. The small town of Todos Santos was a little less than two hours away. If all goes well on the highway.

Passing through the town of San Jose, we spotted a grocery store call Mega. Jack went in, while I stayed by our rental car. I wanted to make sure all our belongings remained in our white Volkswagen. Presently in Belgium, intelligent humans would never leave belongings inside a car for all eyes to descry, while fraudulent temptations are on the rise.

In the giant parking lot, Jack said:

“I know we need help with directions, but don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone.”

“Ok,” I said wondering about our safety in a country I knew so little.

At the time I wasn’t well aware of Mexico City’s agitations, only guessing. While living in Belgium, I mostly hear of tensions unfolding in Greece, Spain, Egypt and other troubled countries. Mexico seemed behind in the European news’ priority list.

With the help of my companion, I quickly grasped the tensions unrolling in the Mexican capital. Hopefully Mexico City was far enough from us. So I wouldn’t worry.

Waiting outside, the mid-afternoon sun felt amazingly hot. The stuffy atmosphere transpired with highly charged humidity. I had left foggy San Francisco in a pair of Jeans and a long sleeves cotton top that started to feel very sticky. I went back inside the car and waited. Jack finally walked back from the giant store with a bag full of groceries.

“You should have put the air conditioner on, while waiting.”

“I thought I did,” I responded. “I’m melting.”

“I bought bottles of water,” he said. “Here drink,” handing me a bottle.

“Thank you,” I responded. “I’m very thirsty. Let’s go now. You were in that store forever.”

“You should have come in. It’s enormous in there,” he explained. “I talked to a vendor for a while. He was all smiles. Everything you want or need in that store. I bought a cooler and a bottle of Cava for you.”

“Super,” I replied. “I can’t wait to take my clothes off, jump in the pool and have a glass of bubbles.”

At last we found highway 19, after touring a few times around a large roundabout connected to numerous streets and multiple stop signs, left and right. Jack wasn’t sure when to stop or drive but other drivers, even a policeman driving through, waved with one hand to let us pass. Perhaps the colors of our hairs helped the friendly residents to yield their driving rights. Traveling through a busy neighborhood saturated with convenient stores, by and by we arrived at the edge of civilization. Eventually, we passed Cabo San Lucas or a touristy destination for surfing fans. A few well-known American hotels promoted luxury in front of a golden beach. The Pacific Ocean came into view with white foams rolling in the distant water.

“Beautiful Ocean,” I proclaimed.

“I have to keep my eyes on the road,” retorted Jack holding the wheels.

“Right.”

As we drove further north, isolated adobes surrounded by giant green cactuses unfolded before our eyes. Millions of tall prickly plants inhabited the surrounding hills and small mountains, but also green shrubs or trees that perhaps were never able to grow taller.

Meanwhile, similar highway signs kept on appearing. The signs reminded drivers of the possibility to turn around in the middle of the highway, a few hundreds kilometers away. Highway 19 connects one place to another. No small or major towns built in between, just a road cutting through a thorny undulated landscape. No gas stations to fuel either, or side roads that might lead to the other side of the highway. The practical setting seemed dangerous to me.

While hills of cactuses unrolled on one side of the highway, here and there, I glanced at the sporadic view of the Pacific Ocean appearing on my left. The blue hue of the water looked impressive, the waves titanic.

Cars passed us by. Some cars had no back plates, while some drove SUV. Arriving at a gate, a large sign read: Pueblo Magico, announcing the small town of Todos Santos. Another small sign directed us to our resort named Posada la Poza. A name I translated into: A Place to Rest.

Leaving the asphalt road behind, we proceeded unto a yellow dirt road. On each side of the unruly road, precarious housings surrounded by garbage filled the scenery. I didn’t expect the sighting. My friend read my face.

“This is Mexico,” Jack remarked.

“I wasn’t prepared,” I retorted.

“We are not in Belgium, or in the United States.”

“I didn’t expect such poverty.”

Grasping my surroundings and the Mexican way of living, I felt uncomfortable. Skinny dogs roamed in one dusty street while small children played soccer on a fortuitous playground. On one side of the following street, two horses tied to a pole munched on grasses. The path to our destination also revealed multiple half-built houses, with long iron poles stretching for the blue sky. I wondered what our resort would look like.

Finally, at the top of a small hill, an adobe-wall encircling colorful abodes came into sight. A sign read: Posada la Poza. We had arrived. The iron entrance gate was closed. Jack rang the bell. A young man carrying keys arrived at the door, a few dogs walking at his side.

“My name is Louis. I’ll show you your room,” meant the smiling young man in broken English.

“Thank you,” I said while Louis carried our luggage to our room.

The owners of the resort came to meet us, both also wearing large smiles on their faces. The couple owning yet managing the property had a foreign accent when speaking in English. Years ago, Juerg and Libusche left Zurich, Switzerland, in search of sun and perhaps another chance in life. Their five dogs wandering the partially enclosed resort had all been rescued.

As we walked towards our bedroom, a tropical garden welcomed us inside an enchanted world. Jasmine flowers unveiled a magical perfume. Palm trees, flowering shrubs, cactuses and various Aloe Vera plants revealed their beauty while the sound of hummingbirds’ wings sang their way around. Unfamiliar sounds also filled the air.

Our bedroom was welcoming, spacious and providing with free WiFi. In no time, Jack and I dressed in our bathing suits and headed to the swimming pool. A small pathway guided us to a Zen landscape displaying empty long chairs, waiting to serve. An Aztec stone statue atop a waterfall guarded the large swimming pool. We both advanced and stepped into the water. The pool’s temperature felt refreshing against my entire body while salted water caressed my skin. Blue and red dragonflies raced above our heads.

“Are we dreaming?” I said. “This is absolutely lovely.”

“Look at the lagoon, the ocean behind, and the birds.”

“Looks like pelicans to me, and white herons too.”

“Let’s go have a closer look.”

Still wearing our wet bathing suits, we slowly progressed towards a large blue lagoon where various water-birds stood still, long beaks espying for food. Green high grasses highlighted the azure bird sanctuary, while a few towering palm trees swayed in the coastal wind. As the sun started imbuing the sky with shades of red, we headed back to our room. The resort’s restaurant was our next undertaking.

While residing in Northern California for many years, I often ate Mexican food. Enchilada is one of my favorites, without forgetting quesadilla, sour cream, guacamole, chips and hot salsa.

That night at the resort’s restaurant, and for several nights, I ordered fish. With my supper, I opted for the house’s organic salad made with Litchi Mexican tomatoes called Morelle de Balbis growing wild in front of the resort’s lagoon, shredded carrots, red beets and green lettuce. A touch of vinaigrette made with mysterious ingredients gave my salad a taste nonpareil. Although my meal was never voluminous, my stomach always felt satiated. I also greatly appreciated eating organic meals.

Often we decided to eat in the indoor dining-room, instead of the terrace standing above the resort’s main restaurant. Even at nights, the temperature was oppressive. The fans spinning in the indoor restaurant only felt a temporary relief. Yet on the ceiling, small ramping geckos seemed dormant. The light green lizards became a blessing. While we ate, my head kept on looking up, watching the tiny creatures advancing towards invisible preys, mosquitoes.

My first night in a comfortable bed was from time to time interrupted by waves of heat, even with two fans in constant motion. Perhaps turning the air-conditioner on while we slept was the solution to my discomfort.

With new days rising, our breakfasts always awaited us on an outdoor terrace featuring small round tables garnished of flowery vases, tropical orchids in woven baskets and an oil-painting created by Juerg’s wife, Libusche. The female artist exhibits her semi-abstract paintings throughout the resort. Fruits were daily on the breakfast menu. I tasted of juicy mangoes that flourished in the region, and Swiss Müesli. One morning after breakfast, we decided on a walk to the beach. The sun was already hot. I put on a hat to protect my blond hair and fair scalp.

To get to the beach, we followed a rocky dirt road along a hill to finally step into sand the color of sunshine. I took my shoes off but quickly put them back on. The sand was burning. Eventually reaching wet sand, I was able to walk shoeless, feeling like a child again, my toes playing in sea-water.

“Don’t go too close,” said my friend. “The current is extremely dangerous here.”

“I can see that,” I responded. “No surfing here I guess.”

“No, not here. Stay away, a wave could come and grab you and you’ll never be able to come back.”

“Ok,” resigning myself to more secure ground or where the waves wouldn’t have a chance.

While pursuing our walk, we encountered pelicans taking a break near the ocean, drying their longs wings in the sun and hot wind. A few black water-birds flew by our side, completely unafraid of our presence. I looked for whales in the ocean waves and learned that we were too early to see colossal mammals traveling south. Not a human soul in sight on the tropical beach, only the two of us and nature at its best.

On our next walk to the beach, we met an old man sitting under an elementary shelter made of dried palm leaves. Although our conversation was in Spanish, Jack and I understood that the indigenous man was guarding a turtle sanctuary. Soon, thousands of eggs would hatch. We didn’t grasp his whole discourse though. But the upcoming full moon gave us a clue. Unfortunately we missed the event. The night of the blue moon, we noticed human shadows on the beach heading toward the extraordinary occasion. People went to help the newly born baby turtles to reach the ocean in safety. 

A few days later, we left our dreamy resort and headed towards Todos Santos.  Arriving in the small town, we discovered a Mexican version of Hotel California. In the hotel’s souvenirs shop, an Eagles’ song played again and again: “Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place ….”  In an adjacent dirt street, we located a colorful café. Sitting indoors under two large wooden fans in full action, I drank an ice Latte and noticed a painting by Gabo, a Mexican artist. Frida Kahlo was also idolized in the small town, as well as La Madre de Mexico shielded of a light blue aura.

Awhile later as we entered an open street shop, multiple beach wraps dyed in bright colors grasped my attention. In the back of the store, a young mother carried her baby while two young girls dressed in dark uniforms ate their lunch. Both girls were sweating. I was too. There was no ventilation in the store.  Further along, we ventured into the local supermarket that sold fruits and vegetables but also bottles of drinking water. Each day, I drank litters of water. We had none left. Thankfully, each day the resort provided us with free bottles of water to clean our teeth, and avoid getting sick. While in town, I also noticed locals walking around with a cloth in hand, and from time to time, sponging their faces. I started carrying a bathroom cloth everywhere I went.

On our last day of vacation, we headed one last time to Todos Santos.

“Can we have a Latte,” I requested.

“Yes. We can.”

“Let’s go back to the coffee house we discovered when we first came to town,” I further said.

“That place is funky.”

“I like it. Lots of colors inside and great pieces of art on the walls,” I added.

“Yes, interesting pieces.”

“The pencil portrait of Frida smoking a cigarette is the way I’d like to draw.”

“I’ve noticed the drawing.”

 With all the water my bladder had already ingested, I needed to go to the bathroom.

“Can you order a hot Latte for me?  I’ll be right back.”

“Hot?” Jack responded.

“Yes. Last time I ordered an ice Latte I found an iceberg in my drink.”

“Are you still worried about water?”

“We’re flying tomorrow. Even though I have no unpleasant ailments to report, I don’t want to try my luck.”

I left my companion in a hurry. At least, relieving myself and proceeding to flush the toilet, no water came about. Without thinking further, I attempted to wash my hands. Putting liquid soap in one of my tan hands, I turned on the faucet water. No water came out either. Walking back to the kitchen’s café, I asked the female server:

“No agua, No water?”

“Si. No agua, Yes. No water,” she said, rinsing my soapy hands with water pouring out of a jar, and smiling.

“Gracias, Thank you,” I responded smiling back.

Later that day, we learned that the town would have no running water for days. The municipal water plant caught on fire. Fortunately for us, Posada la Poza had plenty of running water.

While taking a shower the next morning, I felt very lucky and grateful.
 

Our vacation in Todos Santos faded away and so did our venture to Mexico. After saying farewell to the friendly staffs, we left the precious resort, the beautiful garden yet the incredible view.

Back in Belgium again, I reflected on the hot Mexican days I experienced. Breathtaking recollections feed my mind. Thankfully, I feel blessed that Posada la Poza never experienced a shortage of water. I'm not sure how I would have handled a lack of running water for days, while under a blazing sun. Still today, I find myself smilling and delighted in the power of smile.